


love me and mend

by casualbird



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Napping, No Spoilers, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sleepy Cuddles, if that's not a tag yet it will be soon, linhardt makes love with his socks on, pillow princess linhardt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 20:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20730446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: "I know," Caspar murmurs, face turned into his hair. His breath is warm against Linhardt's ear. "Is there, uh, anything I can do?"It takes a second before he can answer. For one thing, he doesn’t know, but for another, Caspar smells like sweat and line-dried laundry, like the approach of summer, and it's hard to turn away."I need a nap," he drones. "Keep me company?"Linhardt has a rough day. Caspar makes it better.





	love me and mend

The strategy meeting goes long. And Linhardt--he finds these things insufferable when they run on time, even ahead of schedule, so.

They are just so—barbaric. Everyone sitting round the table as if for a banquet, playing a long squabbling game of chess with people’s lives. It prickles at the back of Linhardt's neck, sets tension into his languid spine.

He can't even sleep through them, they are so miserably bloody.

So when Hubert finally rolls the map away, slides it back into his document case—Linhardt is out like a _shot._ It is something that always surprises people about him, for some reason, that he can really move when pressed.

He slips into the common room next door, catches his breath. He feels—it's like a low-grade fever, a constant background simmer of disgust.

A moment passes. He breathes the way Dorothea taught him to, that she said would always calm her pre-performance jitters. It helps.

What helps more is the sight of Caspar swinging through the door, hand on the back of his neck, frowning so apologetically one would think he’d done something wrong himself.

"You okay, Linny?"

He considers it. "I think I’ll survive." A pause, so quiet he can hear the flat fall of his little joke. "I just—truly cannot stand these things. And yet my continued presence is required, even though I never contribute one whit and only end up nauseous."

Caspar steps into his space, lays a warm hand on his shoulder. It's nice— Caspar’s hands are big for his height, rough-hewn and capable. Comforting.

"I know it's necessary," Linhardt continues, listing closer. "I can accept that all of this is necessary. At least, that it is now. I wish the—hmph. You know I trust Edelgard."

Caspar nods. Linhardt had made it very clear. If he didn’t believe wholeheartedly in Edelgard’s vision, he’d be long gone. He never would have gone back to Garreg Mach in the first place.

"I wish she’d never started the damn war," he mutters, dropping his head into the curve of Caspar’s shoulder. He is exhausted, and not in the pleasant way that precedes an afternoon nap, not with any of the accomplishment one feels when all one’s midnight oil has burned away. No, this is just sick. His feet drag. His bones feel hollow, his fingertips cold. It does not abate with rest, no matter how much he sleeps.

Caspar wraps strong arms around him, holding him with care—enough pressure to make him feel guarded, but not enough to crush. Linhardt sighs, relaxes. His knees unlock, and he wilts into Caspar’s chest. They sway, gently, back and forth.

"I know," Caspar murmurs, face turned into his hair. His breath is warm against Linhardt's ear. "Is there, uh, anything I can do?"

It takes a second before he can answer. For one thing, he doesn’t know, but for another, Caspar smells like sweat and line-dried laundry, like the approach of summer, and it's hard to turn away.

It takes another second to convince himself not to be bitter, not to huff and mutter ‘run away with me’ no matter how desperately he wants to, no matter how long he’s spent lying awake pipe-dreaming of it.

"I need a nap," he drones. "Keep me company?"

Caspar nods against Linhardt's neck, gives a soft grunted affirmative, but for a moment they are still.

The atmosphere, the haze of the moment is gone when Caspar backs away, but before Linhardt can protest, Caspar's face is sunny again as he sweeps him up, like a princess, into his arms.

Linhardt breathes laughter, wraps his arms around Caspar's neck. "You’re good to me."

"Course I am!" says Caspar, brightly. "’Sides, you don’t weigh a thing. Come on, Linny, your room or mine?" He starts walking then, as easily as if he were entirely unburdened.

He gives it some thought, laying his head once more against Caspar's shoulder. "Mine, I think. It's closer, and there are fewer stairs."

"I can carry you on stairs!"

"I know."

Caspar has to turn him sideways down the hall to keep from broadsiding some people still finishing their discussion. Linhardt catches little snatches of it, words like "stronghold" and "formation," but it's not so bad, not with Caspar holding him. They pause to look at them as they pass—Lysithea especially looks struck—but Linhardt finds that he feels not even the slightest twinge of shame. He smiles smugly at her, and she blushes.

He is borne ably down the stairs, even though it is a little nerve-wracking, even though he does say that he can take them himself.

Caspar won’t even let him think of it. "Nope!" he says, "I’m taking care of you!"

When they reach his room, Caspar—who has barely broken a sweat—sits him gently on the foot of his bed, clearing out the books and papers that gather there like mushrooms.

"There!" he says, tousling Linhardt's hair. He steps back, then, stripping to his smallclothes as casually as he breathes.

Linhardt watches, because Caspar really is a vision. He’s so—so strong, and stocky, like he's wrought from stone. One would never know from looking at him how _soft_ he is, how sweet. Scars litter his skin in every shade of pink and silver-white—sometimes they frighten Linhardt, reminders of how easily Caspar puts himself in danger, how often he bleeds. But they are also a testament to his own skill, to his love, to his silent inward vow to never stop putting Caspar back together when he needs it.

This, he thinks, as he slips out of his shoes and coat, is what Caspar does for him, after all.

Caspar pulls back the covers, patting the mattress, rumpling the sheets even further. "Come on!"

So Linhardt crawls into bed, getting comfortable, rolling to face him. His back is nearly pressed against the wall—it is not the first time they have been to bed together, and he knows fully well how small the monastery beds are. He does not mind, however, even though he remembers how much easier it was during their academy days, when a much-smaller Caspar would cling to him during storms.

The bedsprings creak under Caspar's weight as he settles in, wrapping his arms around Linhardt once again, laying his head on his bare chest. Linhardt squirms closer, whining approval.

Caspar starts. "Cripes, Lin! Your feet are _really_ cold!"

"Mm." He considers wiggling his toes, just to make Caspar squirm, but it seems like too much effort. "I’m wearing socks."

"Your hands too, poor baby." So he holds him closer, rearranges the covers at their necks.

If he wasn’t so exhausted, so drained, Linhardt would scoff at the idea of being anyone’s _poor baby._ But it's— his heart feels full. it's okay if it's Caspar, holding him like this.

So he says nothing, just relaxes, presses his cold nose into Caspar's chest. Breathes, again, the way he was taught. This time, the warm smell of Caspar's skin makes it all the more soothing.

All the day’s nastiness still thrums through his head—it never really stops—but Caspar's heartbeat against his cheek, Caspar's lips pressing soft into the part of his hair—it's enough to give him some _distance_ from it all.

He always sleeps easy like this.

* * *

He wakes warm, still clutched to Caspar's chest, to a broad hand rubbing his back. Caspar's face is still buried in his hair, and he's murmuring something, hushed and earnest.

Linhardt furrows his brow, sleepy brain fumbling to parse the words.

A smile melts across his face when he puts it together.

"You're cute when you sleep, too," he says, lips just brushing Caspar's chest. Caspar shifts, draws back.

"Oh—I'm sorry! I woke you up." He blurts it out, startled. Linhardt hisses at the noise, but cannot bring himself to be annoyed.

"It's not the rudest awakening I’ve ever had from you," says Linhardt, weaseling one hand from between their bodies to lay between Caspar’s shoulder blades.

Caspar pauses for a moment, stills his hand on the nape of Linhardt’s neck, and Linhardt can hear the gears turning, can practically see his little frown as he remembers all the times he’s shouted Linhardt awake or dove onto his bed. There was that one time with the pail of water—Linhardt had vowed never to forgive him that, but Caspar’s far too sweet to hold a grudge against.

"Can I make it up to you?" Caspar asks, still just a hair too loudly.

Linhardt considers it, runs the numbers in terms of how far he can reasonably expect Caspar to spoil him this time.

He pulls his head back, shifting up to look Caspar in the face. There it is—that earnest little frown, those wide eyes. Despite himself, he laughs under his breath. The concern is sweet. "For a start," he says, pouting, "you could kiss me."

So Caspar does, hand darting to cup Linhardt's jaw as he presses their lips together, just this side of overeager.

It goes on, Caspar trying full-tilt to make Linhardt love it, moving slow and holding their bodies close, licking _just so_ into his mouth.

Linhardt leans back, catching his breath, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. _"Well,"_ he says, "if I hadn’t forgiven you before…"

Caspar beams at that, wet lips parting, and Linhardt can't help but kiss him again, nipping at his lower lip. Caspar jerks, whining, and Linhardt gloats to himself— he always loves catching him off guard, especially when it takes so little effort.

Retaliation comes in the form of Caspar's hand sweeping down his side, skimming the dip of his waist and settling lower, kneading at his hip.

"Is this okay?" asks Caspar, and Linhardt barely parses the question, because Caspar's face is a high pink, pupils blown out even in the light of afternoon.

But Caspar's concern is legitimate, so he's got to marshal himself, got to answer. "You know I love it when you manhandle me." His eyes are half-lidded, comically lascivious.

Caspar laughs, kissing the apple of his cheek. "Yeah, baby? You want me to bench press you?"

"That would require me to move, so no. Just _please don't stop kissing me."_

A smile, then, wide and just a little mischievous—clearly, Caspar is inspired. He runs with it, tilting his head to mouth at Linhardt's pale neck. Linhardt keens. Caspar doesn't think it's sporting to exploit obvious weak points when he fights, but all bets are off between the sheets.

Still he's careful, holds his teeth back, doesn't linger too long in one place. But Linhardt whines, tosses in his hold, tells him in no uncertain terms to leave a mark.

"Under my collar," he specifies, shivering at the thought of starched fabric chafing over it the next day. Caspar obliges him, sucking at the thin skin over his pulse point.

And with Caspar's mouth so hot, so _eager_ on his neck—Linhardt can't help his breath from stuttering in his throat, can't help his hips from pitching up, pressing into Caspar's corded thigh.

Caspar laughs, surprised, into Linhardt's ear. "You like that?"

"Isn’t it obvious?" He rolls his hips up again, deeming it just barely worth the effort for Caspar's warmth, for the friction. Besides, if he really drives the point home, Caspar won’t be able to keep himself from helping.

Goddess, but he wishes he’d taken off his pants before bed. They were… permissive, but not this much. And Caspar's nearly naked. Had he had fifteen seconds of forethought, he could be feeling _so much more_ of him.

So he fixes it the best way he knows how.

"Caspar," he whines, "Caspar, please." And that gets his attention, stops him directly in his tracks. He pulls off of Linhardt's neck once more, the chipped edges of his teeth just grazing him.

"Yeah?"

"Undress me. All the way."

And Caspar grins at him, that goofy smile that he throws at everything from sweet buns to monastery cats to really sunny days. Maybe someone else would think that that made it less special, less rare—but Linhardt knew better.

If he was on par with wrestling and interesting rocks, then he was loved.

“Yeah? You want me to take care of you more, Linny? Course I will, baby, you’ve had a rough day.”

Caspar kissed him once more on the lips, sloppy and hard, and drew back, breaking their embrace.

"Sorry, baby," he coos, because it's drafty in his room. Because he knows how Linhardt loves to be held, wrapped up in strong arms until there’s nothing else.

He makes short work, then, of his clothes, tossing aside Linhardt's undershirt and trousers without ceremony. It is only incidental that he touches him, that his rough fingers skim the dips between Linhardt's ribs, that his wrists drag over shifting thighs. Linhardt sighs anyway. Caspar has done a great many good deeds by accident, least of all this.

A pause, when Caspar's fingertips curl around the waistband of Linhardt's smalls.

"You sure?"

Caspar runs roughshod over every other piece of Linhardt's life, has done so enthusiastically for nigh on fifteen years. But in Linhardt's bed, he is so careful. Here, of all places, he keeps himself in check.

Linhardt, having had only a couple of months to decide, cannot determine whether he finds it endearing or _dreadfully_ irksome. Looking up at him through half-lidded, exasperated eyes, he fears it might be both in equal measure.

"I mean what I say," he says, not quite managing his usual flippancy.

So Caspar drags away Linhardt's underwear like it owes him money, stares in open awe at his bare body. Absent, he places one splayed hand on the curve of Linhardt's thigh.

He goes red like he's run a mile when Linhardt catches his wrist in his long cold fingers, guides him to the base of his cock.

"You want it?" Caspar asks, his voice suddenly a rasp.

"I woke up like this," Linhardt confesses, voice hitching when Caspar takes him in hand, stroking him slow and firm, just the way Caspar knows he likes it. "It would seem that… I want you even in my sleep."

Another too-loud laugh, ringing out in the soft silence. "I'm just too sexy!" and it's so stupid, but the way the corners of Caspar's eyes crinkle up is _holy._

"That you are," Linhardt agrees, hips stuttering up into his hand. "Caspar, Caspar…"

"Yeah, Linny?"

It's just then that Caspar brushes the rough pad of his thumb over the crown of Linhardt's cock, and he whines and leaks and very nearly forgets what he was going to say.

"I need you to hold me," he manages, furrowing his brow as if puzzling out some arcane mystery.

Caspar looks _thunderstruck,_ staring down at Linhardt's face. He's panting, now, though he hasn’t been touched, and it's so _darling_ because he is always like this. Every solitary time that they make love, there is something that just throws him off his rhythm, strums his nerves like the strings of a mandolin.

And Linhardt's chest is so replete with love that he's barely got room to _breathe,_ and he doesn't even mind that Caspar takes his hand away, because he's settling down beside him, turning him to face, pulling him so close that Linhardt can feel Caspar's heartbeats thrumming through his diaphragm.

He's crying out, moaning from deep in his throat, because one of Caspar's arms is underneath him, letting him pet the small of his back, while the other fumbles in between. Linhardt cannot keep himself from twitching, from smearing precome on the back of Caspar's hand. He shudders and swears because it’s nothing like enough, and throws his arms around Caspar’s neck.

His lips are parted, and Caspar dives in to kiss them, to slip his tongue in Linhardt's mouth, to gently, so gently worry his lower lip between his teeth.

Caspar backs away for only a second, so close that their lips are still touching, slipping wet against each other.

"I wanna make you feel good," he says, and the hand at Linhardt's abdomen stops fumbling.

"You do, you will," pants Linhardt, honest. "Caspar, please…"

And Caspar's hips are rolling against him, his cock a familiar heat against Linhardt's. "Hey, don't you go begging me," he whispers, as he wraps that hand around the both of them. "You know I'm all yours."

"Yes…!"

Linhardt shivers with delight, and keeps on shivering, because Caspar's hips are rolling out an easy rhythm even as his hand moves, that slow constant Linhardt adores, and he feels the way he does just as he casts a healing spell, when it's not urgent, when he can really dig deep and feel it— so overcome with comfort that he can scarcely contain it all.

He registers, distantly, that his breathing is sharp, that he is whimpering, that Caspar's fingers are getting slick with how freely he is dripping.

Caspar is panting in his ear, stopping between gasps of air to mouth at the curve of his jaw, trailing a desperate mess of kisses.

And his hips cannot stop squirming, but Caspar's hand on his back keeps him steady, holds him fast.

"Am I touching you right, Linny? Are you gonna come?"

Linhardt nods against Caspar's unshaven cheek, tossing his hips, feeling the scope of the world narrow down and focus on the way that Caspar's cock twitches against his own, the patient insistence of his hand. His hips shudder up, working on instinct, on naked, gasping desire.

"Come on, baby, come on, just like that, _fuck,_ look at you…" Caspar is breathless, but his half-lidded eyes are keenly focused.

And Linhardt opens his mouth to say something clever, but all that comes out is a cry, pitchy and sweet, muffled against Caspar's mouth as he crushes their lips together, comes spasming into his hand.

Caspar opens his mouth, cannot find anything to say. So he laughs his delight, voice quavering even then.

And when Linhardt stops shaking, wilts satisfied against him, Caspar kisses his cheeks, his eyelids, his nose. He tastes of sweat, and long hairs cling to Caspar's wet lips. Caspar pays it no mind, simply holds him and dotes on him, bringing himself off with abandon.

"Caspar," croaks Linhardt, after a moment, his eyes falling back into focus. Caspar's face is _gorgeous,_ shining with sweat, red to his collarbones, the tips of his ears.

Caspar is watching him with glassy eyes, searching. Linhardt adores him, cups his cheek, feels his stubble graze over his soft palm.

"That was…" and it takes a second for his words to fall in line.. "That was perfect, Caspar, the way you made me feel… you're so good to me, I can't— say it enough, I _love_ you—"

He's cut off, then, by Caspar's mouth on his once more, teeth crashing together as he curls around him, shouting his release. And Linhardt presses close to him, kisses him, strokes his face as he comes down.

It is a long time before Caspar falls away, head listing back, gasping for breath.

"Oh," he murmurs, through heaving breaths, "Oh, Linny, I love you too."

"I know you do," says Linhardt, petting his head, feeling Caspar's soft hair brush through the spaces between his fingers.

For some time they lay like that, loose-limbed, silent. Linhardt is nearly asleep once more when Caspar shifts, groaning the way he does after a good spar. He grunts his confusion, but Caspar's just grabbing a corner of the sheet, dragging it over to wipe up their mess.

Something far away tells Linhardt to take issue with this, but there are matters much more pressing to be tended to.

"Hey," he rasps, easy smile on his face. "Caspar."

"Yeah, Linny?"

"Thank you. For taking care of me."

Caspar shrugs, just the slightest twitch of spent muscle. "You always do for me."

And he reaches for Linhardt, pulls him close once more, skin on sweaty skin. They twine their legs together, nestling in so they fit perfectly.

"Yes," whispers Linhardt. "Always."

And for once, there is no world outside their door. No war outside their walls. For once he is not exhausted when sleep takes him, not ground down past nothing.

When he falls asleep again in Caspar's arms, he is soft and sated and satisfied.

And, as always, he is loved.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! thanks so much for reading. gosh, i really can't stop myself from writing linny. this is what, my fourth fic with him in? clearly i am Mad About The Boy.
> 
> oh, and i shake the hand of all my friends from discord.
> 
> any and all feedback is deeply appreciated.


End file.
